Each of my parents, like all parents, hoped for a better likeness of himself/herself reflected back in their child. I don’t suppose it occured to either of them that they could have tried to stretch the borders for themselves, rather than stretch the child. Still, I’m grateful, I know how to do most of everything.

Things My Father Taught MeThings My Mother Taught Me
How to paint a picture.How to paint a house.
Wipe down the whole kitchen (including the stove) after doing the dishes, otherwise it doesn't countTake the part you need with youto the hardware store, so the new part fits exactly.
Buy Brand X, and look at the ingredients.Buy two of something if they're cheap.
Watch people; they're entertaining.Watch women.
Weep; it purges the soul.Never cry; you'll look like a woman.
Never mix dark loads with white ones.Hold the hammer at the very endof the shaft, not up by the head like a girl.
Read great literature.Make art.
Be nice to people.You can't trust people.
Let women vent.Let women vent.

My father usually made our lunches, my mother drove us to the bus stop. I would watch his fingers float over the bread, the mayonnaise, the bologna. Delicate, handsome fingers, floating in the air like a storyteller. A few times a guest grown-up would remark on the novelty of a father who fixed lunch for his kids. They never saw my mother’s sandwhiches, which always consisted of hunks of cheese and eggs, no sandwhich, and no napkin.“Eat like a peasant,” she would say. “It suits your character.”

I think a chair by itself in any place will look quite alone. To prove this, I’ll use photographer Marco Prete’s minimalism shot of a chair by the lake. The chair is all by itself. It looks bleak in its complete aloneness. If it weren’t a chair, you might almost think that it was lonely. It is an unoccupied chair. Unlike a table in a park on which one can paint a picture or arrange his things or pile books or leave a stranger’s note, a chair needs someone sitting in it and has no other utility. There isn’t much you can do with a chair. It just haunts the field or the room it is in.
The art of blogging is to send a new character of yourself to the forest – a character who is honest, charming and innocent – a character in whom any hungry reader would see himself by past recall and would welcome into his house. The reader then would feast on the lost character with his hungry mouth until the character bleeds (yet seems bewildered) at her being human. This is the art of sharing a piece of yourself at the frequented banquets such as Wordpress, Weebly, Blogspot, etc. To have a good blog, you must have a delightful character in quest for some nice salutation and you must have *strange* readers with hungry mouth to usher your character in to their houses. This is so, because you just can’t make a blog out of a nice character and a nice reader.
1. I wish I could quit smoking.

2. I wish there was something otherwordly in the kind of beauty I possess. I wish something in it went beyond gender. There nothing duller in  this world than being a homely, hideously ordinary looking boy.

3. I wish I could always carry a bag with two or three books in it because I have for years been frightened that someday I’ll be stuck in some hellish place and find myself with nothing to think about.

4. I wish I could transform something as ordinary as boiled egg into something nearly heaven.

5. I wish I could accept the way money controls people, the disgraceful things so many people do to get it, the almost limitless vulgarity of it all, the way it can overtake one’s life, and the way it can define people. I hate it when I am defined by what I do instead of by who I am.

6. I wish there was no someone above, so there would be no one below.

7. I wish there were no words to mean a thing. We would have been going through life by our nose, forgetting our bad history through our piss.

8. I wish I had monogamous eyes.

9. I wish I were a genuine fag; the kind that has never pursued anyone before, for reasons that I have always preferred to be the one pursued.

10. I wish people would agree with me that love must live up to itself no matter what. That it knows nothing of its age. That it grows and just forever celebrates, regardless of demands and unfeigned encouragements.

11. I wish it were true that people who are not good-looking, who are not everyone’s ideal, are those (because they are more grateful) who can make better love.

12. I wish I could keep these thoughts.

13. I wish my blog could change several lives.

14. I wish I could quit blogging.

15. I wish you would not mind if I had been lying.

This morning everything is clean; the landlady of the house I am living in has picked up the branches and leaves strewn around the yard, which I normally pass by; all the rags and curtains have been washed and hung dry but pocked with impressions of rain, and the wooden floor glisten in the yellow seven am light. I sit at the living room couch with a stick of cigarette, looking at the grace of the morning.

Today is much new from all the other days. I woke up at six, cooked omelet, and ate while looking at the beautiful sunrise, wondering how many times I missed it. It’s not much new from the many other mornings I woke up but still, I felt something miraculous is about to happen. This time I know something will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this excitement, this growing expectation can ward off the miracle from happening. But I have felt it. It is coming. I am waiting while reading Derek Walcott’s poem, Love After Love.

I think about carnal pleasures (most of the times) and look around and feel certain that something tragic is well on its way. All of this is easy to say in recollection, and I am not claiming prophecy. I am not playing made up fortune teller. I do feel, though, and I believe it’s true, that tragedies- all kinds of disasters- are always coiled up and ready to come, and that the happening of them has been scheduled, someone, long in advance.

I don’t know when it will come or what form it would take, nor do I know that no man can give another safety in it.

There will always be one final everything– the last word, of course, the last blink of an eye; there will be one last blog entry you write, the last log-in or log-out click, one last emoticon you will use. There will be a last time you can open the fridge, a last movie you will see, a last time you ride in a jeepney with nostalgic songs. It doesn’t matter how many coins you throw into the wishing well or how many times you kneel down a prayer in a day. You will make one last photograph, and be photographed one final time by somebody else; there will be one last time you will walk on a particular street, one last time you will go out from your house or come back into it. You will have one last beer, one last dream, one last orgasm, one last cigarette. There will be one final time you will see or will be seen by the man or the woman you have loved, or the people you have known, unless, of course, you outlive them all, which is unlikely.

You will lick one last stamp for the last letter you made.

I hope you won’t miss it. But you won’t know it when you do.

Sometimes you advance towards a specific destination with not just a sense of purpose and direction, but with a sense of what to expect, and you progress assured in the knowledge that the world you know will be as you know it and have always known it.

When I visited my former boarding house the other week, I knew what I would find there. I did not know of course that there were new boarders there or that the owner had been sick for months, or for how I long I don’t know, but I knew where my dusty shoes would be and that my books would be on the shelves; I knew how the paintings of my old room would be hanging, that the half-consumed gin and empty cigarette packs would be under my bed, and so on. I knew my roommate might be there, and if he wasn’t I knew he would be on another day.

Sometimes I realize that I exist with the sense that life goes on in a regular manner, that I can breathe because I am meant to and air is air, that ‘hello, goodbye, long time no see’ will greet me, that fruit and vegetables will be sold where they were sold yesterday– in short, that I can recognize myself in a recognizable world. And that much of life is ordinary and I am compelled by fate to know it, to live it, for however long.
In the future,

I will look back at memories of US and sigh (or smile) and be thankful for what time we spent together, be it days, weeks, months, or mere seconds.

I will remember the wine you sipped from the dish of my tongue; such is a poem so sweet you left on a frozen December night; crispy creams at early morn, sleeping to your guitared lullabies.

I may forget the names I used to call you, subsequent years from now -- concrete details lost to memory forever... but I will never forget the essence of what made You who You are, and why I chose You, for a time.

If we'll meet years from now, wherever it'll be, however the events will twist our fate,  I'll still be proud to say;

I did love you so-- it was like a well, so deep, that if you went to the very bottom, you'd see stars.